


Slip Stitch

by TheTraderJoesParkingLot



Category: Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Adam is an anxious bean, Bonding, Family Bonding, Finally Adam gets to use his craft supplies for good, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, One Shot, maybe some angst too, post-musical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:27:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28779018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTraderJoesParkingLot/pseuds/TheTraderJoesParkingLot
Summary: “Adam, hey. What’s up?”In an attempt to dissolve the one-sided tension (hopefully she didn’t feel it too), he looked up.“The ceiling.”...Or, alternatively, Adam gets to finally use his craft supplies for something productive.
Relationships: Lydia Deetz & Adam Maitland
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Slip Stitch

Adam was busy clearing out boxes in the attic when he saw it.

A ball of purple yarn.

It snuck up on him, tucked away into the farthermost corner, making him jump backwards as though he saw a venomous spider and not a bundle of polyester fibers. It had really been a stupid, impulse purchase when he bought it. He was at the craft store, diligently picking up some clay for his wife when he decided to take a quick stroll up and down the aisles. Craft stores are calming, with their organized, color-coded displays, the air always smelling like rich, warm potpourri. For some strange, unknown reason, the deep purple yarn stood out to him, like a lighthouse on a foggy night. He remembered grabbing it, curling his fingers around the strands, feeling their soft, inviting texture. He tried to walk away; the color was too dark, too macabre, so uncharacteristic for him and his cheery wife, and he shouldn’t like it. And yet, he found himself turning around, walking briskly back down the aisle to add it to his cart. He sauntered through the store, pondering the little ball and why it would not leave his thoughts. An itching feeling in the back of his mind, almost like he was forgetting something, akin to wondering if he left the stove on or if he locked the front door on his way out. But maybe it would be perfect, he thought, for baby booties, or a swaddling blanket, or perhaps a cap to keep a little girl’s head nice and warm. And then he got home, and like everything else, he got cold feet, with his nervous pacing and wringing hands, and he jammed it in the attic before his wife got the chance to see it and freak out herself, with her wavering, high-pitched voice and jittery movements.

And then he died.

And then the pooch had been screwed, and the shit hit the fan.

And that’s putting it lightly (and vulgarly).

So here he stood in the attic, crouched in the corner, peering cautiously over his shoulder at the new inhabitants of the house. _His_ house, really, but he wasn’t going to complain. He was just glad he was still able to live—reside—in it alongside his beautiful, doting wife, who would never get the chance to be a mother, even though she was so expertly built for the job with her soft touches, her gentle voice, and her clear, level-headed attitude. The same level-headed attitude that was being used to compare paint swatches with a man by the name of Charles Deetz. Adam cocked his head slightly, considering him. He was tall, and big, and foreboding, with his broad shoulders and perfectly groomed facial hair. Adam smiled, however, knowing that he was just a big softy underneath it all. Probably. He really didn’t get the chance to get to know that man that much yet, but when you’re thrown into a plot to raise a demon from the dead and effectively kill him not a minute later, you just sort of _know_ things about a person. Especially when you have to pretend the lifelong objectification of women was perfectly okay and acceptable.

Speaking of women, Delia Deetz—well, Delia…whatever her last name was, Adam had no clue, but their marriage didn’t happen yet—was standing over their shoulders, chattering lightly about the paint swatches in question. She was a funny woman, all fluttery and light and airy, plus she was a pretty great dancer when the record player was turned on. Something else he just _knew_ despite the lack of information to back it up was that she had a heart of gold, despite being terribly misguided her entire life. Hopefully, this would be the end to her misguidance. Adam nodded to himself. Yeah, they were going to get along just fine.

Far away in the opposite corner examining piles of old books (they were old book people after all), sat the metaphorical sun that these four planets found themselves revolving around. Lydia. The innocent victim who got caught up in their initial bedsheet-laden plan to scare, although, come to think of it, she did more scaring than they ever could. Adam quickly learned, however, that for as hard and sharp of an exterior the girl had put up, she had an equally, if not even more so, soft, sweet interior that was just begging to be seen and heard. And what disastrous, unfortunate lengths she was forced to go to achieve that. And those lengths were made apparent by her physical appearance, with the dark circles under her eyes, the bruises dotting her elbows and shoulders, and the scabs that formed on her knees. So, as he stared at the young girl, he thought about the yarn before him—deep, dark, and mysterious—and he figured he may as well bust out his crochet hook and put that yarn to good use.

About a week later, Adam found himself standing outside of the teenager’s door, bouncing lightly from foot to foot, shifting his weight uncertainly. He checked his watch. 2:30. It seemed like a good time. He saw Lydia at breakfast, so he knew she was awake. Plus, he could hear her music humming lightly behind the door. But he still felt like he was intruding. Like he’d knock, and she’d answer with that scathing _what_ that only teenagers know how to use, packing so such annoyance and apathy into a simple syllable. What did teenagers even do at 2:30 in the afternoon?!

Only one way to find out.

Adam gently knocked three times and waited. A second after (although it felt like an hour), the music came to an abrupt halt, and a moment later (although that felt like another hour) Lydia peeked out of the door, a hesitant smile forming on her face.

“Adam, hey. What’s up?”

In an attempt to dissolve the one-sided tension (hopefully she didn’t feel it too), he looked up.

“The ceiling.”

Lydia groaned, her smile growing larger. That’s a good sign. Right?

“That was terrible, but expected. So really, what’s up? And don’t say the sky, or birds, or space. Or any sort of aircraft.”

“Gas prices.”

Lydia threw her head back, huffing out a steadying breath as her lips wobbled against another, even larger, smile.

“Okay, new rule: nothing about our conversations can ever divert into the topic of economics or fossil fuels.”

Adam chuckled, giving in, mostly because he ran out of dad-joke answers.

“Fine. I, uh, I just wanted to see what you were up to.”

“Nothing really.”

“Nice.”

The two stood, nodding at each other as the air grew thick between them. Lydia’s eyes darted around, scanning the silent hallway.

“Well, uh, thanks for checking on me. I should get back to my nothing, I guess.”

“Lydia, wait.”

The door, and its accompanying creaking, stopped abruptly. He’d have to get some WD-40 for that. He probably still had some up in the attic…

“Adam, are you okay?”

Oh no. This was getting weird. He was getting weird. Why is he making such a big deal out of this? Oh God, now she’s staring at him all weird, with her eyebrows scrunched up and her head cocked, so full of confusion and secondhand awkwardness and embarrassment. Say something!

“Yeah, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, when we were cleaning out the attic last week, I found some of my old crocheting supplies. I was never really one for knitting. The two needles made it really confusing, and my hands never felt big enough to handle two things at once, even though it’s something old ladies do all the time, but the needles would always end up slipping out of my hands and onto the floor—anyway, I found some old supplies that I never got around to using, and instead of throwing them out, I thought I’d make you this.”

Adam withdrew a purple, crocheted kitten from behind his back. It was long and plump, with stubby little legs and floppy ears. Adam had found some extra black yarn to adorn the kitten with eyes, a nose, some whiskers, and a smile. In the afternoon sun that was streaming through the window, the little flecks of gold and silver that were so intricately woven within the fibers sparkled. Lydia seemed like a cat person. She was quiet, and kind of (very) anti-social, and would probably hiss at you if she wasn’t in the mood to be touched. Lydia took it, her eyebrows remaining scrunched as she scanned it, turning it this way and that. She said nothing for several seconds.

He knew this was a mistake.

He knew he should’ve just thrown that stuff out and forgotten about it, like every other stupid piece of junk in the attic. She probably hated it and thought it was lame. Or, even worse (and Adam _loved_ to dream up worst case scenarios) she would probably get mad, and yell at him for patronizing and babying her and what was he thinking, giving a _fifteen year old girl_ a toy made out of dumb, sparkly yarn that was meant for a baby and—

Small, slender arms wrapped themselves around Adam’s midsection, clutching the kitten behind his back. He stood, properly flummoxed, his arms hanging loosely in the air before he brought them gingerly around the girl, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing.

“Adam, it’s adorable!” She squealed, pulling back. “How did you make this?”

“It’s crochet.”

She blew a chuckle out of her nose, exasperated. “Adam, I know it’s crochet. What I meant was how did you learn to crochet?”

“Oh. Uh, YouTube. It just seemed like an interesting hobby. And, as you already know, knitting didn’t really work out for me. So. Yeah.”

“So you’re telling me you actually know how to operate a computer?”

“Believe it or not, I do.” Adam chuckled.

“I love it. Her, actually. I think I’ll name her…Mintaka. It’s a star—”

“—in the constellation Orion.” Adam finished, quirking his eyebrows excitedly. Lydia nodded.

“Yeah. It is. But thank you, Adam. I really love her.”

“Yeah?”

“Definitely.”

“Not a problem, kiddo.”

The pair stood, staring at each other as silence filled in around them once more.

“Well,” Adam started, clapping his hands together. “I’ll let you get back to your nothing, then. Glad you like it. Her.” Adam turned to leave, and probably go cry over this small victory in the attic.

“Wait, Adam?”

He spun back around. “Yeah?”

“Do you wanna see some of my photos? I have a whole bunch of boxes, and I need some help organizing them, and you seem like the perfect person for the job. If it’s not too much trouble, I mean.”

He strode back over to the girl and her brand new stuffed kitten, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Lydia, it would be an absolute pleasure.”

Adam Maitland may never know exactly why the purple yarn stood out to him that day in the craft store.

But he had a pretty good idea.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a headcanon that popped into my head the other night and I absolutely had to release it out into the world. I love me some Lydia and Adam moments and we don't get enough of them and we can never have enough of them 🥺
> 
> Also Lydia definitely sleeps with the kitten every night and you cannot convince me otherwise.


End file.
